


Oversize Load Ahead

by roebling



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Truckers, Belching, Belly Fucking, Embarrassment Kink, Fat Shaming, Fat fetish, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Feedism, Gluttony, M/M, Messy eating, Name-Calling, Old Friends, Out of Shape, Stuffing, Weight Gain, cop!hunk, morbid obesity, non-voltron au, trucker!lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 03:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14393064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: Lance has been hauling freight along the deep space routes for almost ten years. He's a good pilot and very careful, which is why after one too many hot dogs he parks his ship to sleep off his stomach ache. When he wakes up to a Starway Patrol ship flagging him down, he can't figure out what he's done -- or why the officer's voice sounds so familiar.





	Oversize Load Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story is a fetish story that deals explicitly with weight gain, eating and body image. There are some elements of the story that are unrealistic or heightened for ~kinky~ effect. Our two protagonists engage in very consensual but decidedly unnegotiated fetish activity. Finally, there is fetishization of the negative health effects of unhealthy weight gain, sloppy eating, name calling and morbid obesity in this story. IF THAT'S NOT YOUR THING PLEASE DON'T READ!! I've tried to tag as explicitly as possible, but as always if you need more information please comment and I'll do my best to let you know what you're getting in to. I can't emphasize enough that this is explicit weight gain fantasy and that you shouldn't read this if this kink isn't your thing and it's going to make you unhappy or upset in any way. I wrote this for my own enjoyment and I am sharing it because I suspect some other people out there might enjoy it as well. If you're not one of them, go right ahead and hit that back button. 
> 
> This is almost certainly the most dirty thing I've ever written :) It was inspired by firstly by a Lyft driver I had whose stomach was just as impressive, I think, as Lance's is in this story. Secondly, it was inspired by my very real desire to see Hunk as a policeman and Lance as a trucker. Somehow those two things combined and turned into this mess. Although this is basically just fat fetish, I've also included at least some cursory ~feelings~. That being said, the plot is really just an excuse for me to write some ridiculously gratuitous porn. Apparently my desire to write Voltron fic remains limited to making Lance get really, really fat.
> 
> A few final notes: Lance is LARGE in this. I don't specify a weight in the story but I picture him in the 600+ pound range. Hunk struggles a little bit with negative self image. Diet and weight loss are mentioned. If there's anything else you'd like to know about the content before you read, please ask!

The siren wakes Lance. His freighter ship picks up the shortwave frequency and plays the Intergalatic Starway Patrol claxon — a long wail and then half a note lower a shorter wail. Almost makes him think of his childhood back on Earth, all those years and all those miles ago. Blue skies and green grass. The feeling of damp soil under foot and the taste of his mother’s enchiladas. 

Mmmm. 

He hasn’t had a good enchilada in years. 

But the siren doesn’t fade. It gets louder and more persistent until Lance wakes with a choked half-snore.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shifting ever so slightly in his seat. He always sleeps in the pilot’s seat these days. It’s just easier. He sits up a bit straighter and an empty packet of cheese poofies falls to the floor. He brushes the neon orange crumbs off his stomach and, as has been happening more and more often lately, he momentarily stunned by the size of it. The massive soft pile of flab takes up all of his lap and more, flowing over the arm rests and pressing gently against the console in front of him. 

He doesn’t quite know how he put on so much weight in the ten years since he quit the Galaxy Garrison,. He doesn’t even know how much he’s put on, exactly, but he knows it’s a lot. Lots of hours sitting on his ass, hauling cargo back and forth between little podunk planets halfway to nowhere. Lots of time to stuff his face while the ship’s nav system does the heavy lifting.

It’s not what he dreamed of, but it pays well. Hasn’t done much for the old bod, though, he thinks, slapping his belly softly. He groans as all that flab wobbles. He’s still pretty full from those hotdogs he’d picked up at that station outside of Centauri last night. They’d given him a bad case of indigestion but it had been worth it. You can’t find a good hot dog at every space station. How many had he eaten again? Six? Maybe seven? 

Hard to remember. Takes a lot to satisfy him, these days. 

He reaches for the soda in the cupholder of his console and takes a long sip. The thermos bottle keeps it perfectly cold and perfectly carbonated. Now that’s something they didn’t have when he was a kid. He sets the soda back down and then he belches loudly. The release of pressure makes his stomach feel a bit better. 

He feels a bit peckish, actually. After this is over, he’s going to need to stop and get some breakfast. Pancakes maybe, and some bacon. Yeah, that would hit the spot. 

The siren wails louder still. 

“Damn it,” he says, and he enters the command sequence to acknowledge the Starway Patrol. His paperwork is all in order. What does this asshole want? Why bother him? Don’t they have better things to do than bother a guy just trying to make a decent living? 

As he waits for the officer to approach, he tries to tidy himself up. Those cheese poofies left an orange stain on his shirt. It’s not like the Starway Patrol is going to care, but some part of Lance still appreciates the value of making a good first impression. He brushes his hair back from his forehead, glancing at himself in the console mirror.

He smiles and thinks, okay, yeah, so maybe he’s gotten a little heavier, but he’s still a good looking guy. He’s still got it. Most of the weight he’s packed on has settled in his belly and ass and thighs. His chest is softer, sure, and his upper arms have spongy wings of flab dangling from them, but from the neck up, he almost looks like that young handsome kid that thought he’d be a hero one day. 

He snorts.

Yeah. Hero. Right. 

The officer _finally_ makes his way over to Lance’s ship. In Lance’s vid panel, he can see the guy is wearing the standard issue black and navy suit emblazoned with the logo of the Intergalatic Starway Patrol. His badge gleams bright on his chest, and the shaded faceplate of his helmet give him an alien and unfriendly air. He’s a big guy, Lance thinks. Taller than Lance, who isn’t short, and big through the shoulders and chest with a trim waist. 

Great. Like Lance needs a reason to feel worse about himself.

“Is there a problem, officer?” Lance asks once he’s connected up to the officer’s short range frequency. 

“What are you doing parked out here?” The officer asks. There’s something weirdly familiar about his voice, even distorted as it is by the radio transmission. “This sector is an Alpha Twelve Noir security zone, pilot. No civilians allowed.” 

Lance frowns. Alpha Twelve? How the hell had he gotten so far off course? He tries to remember if he’d gotten any nav warnings last night — but the only thing he can remember about last night is eating all of those hot dogs, and then topping them off with a few bags of chips, and the cheese poofies, and a couple of sodas, and some ice cream, and... So much food, actually, that he’d been stuffed to the brim and aching. So full he hadn’t paid attention to much of anything other than the thrilling, terrible pain in his gut. 

“Uh,” he says. “I’m sorry, Officer. I wasn’t feeling well last night and must have gone off course. Just pulled over here to sleep it off. Trying to be a safe and responsible pilot, sir.” He gives the officer his brightest, cheeriest grin. It’s not like the guy can see him -- his broadcast is audio only right now. But maybe it helps. 

There is a moment of silence. “License and registration,” the officer says. 

Muttering a curse under his breath, Lance beams over his credentials. Damn. This is going to means points on his license, which is going to hike up his insurance rates _again_. He makes good money as a pilot, all things considered, but he’s still paying off the new hyperspace drive had to put in last year. 

The officer is quiet for so long that Lance starts to get worried. What’s the problem here? He’s careful. Really careful. He’s done this for almost ten years, and he’s careful about his paperwork and permits, careful never to haul anything that might get him into trouble. He makes up for it by flying the long lonely routes most guys won’t take. Does he have some ticket outstanding he forgot to pay? Did he miss paying the duties at some backwater spaceport somewhere?

Just when he’s starting to get really nervous, the officer finally speaks. 

“Lance?” 

“Uh, yeah?” That’s weird. Officers don’t usually call you by your first name. 

But then the officer switches the channel from audio only to audio-video and Lance’s vid screen switches suddenly from an exterior shot to a direct shot of the officer. The image takes a moment to resolve, but when it does Lance gasps. 

He’d know that face anywhere.

“Holy shit. Hunk. What are you doing here? You’re a cop now?” 

Hunk — good old Hunk! — looks almost just exactly like Lane remembers: same bright eyes and broad handsome features. He looks good, Lance thinks with a little spark of jealousy.

Laughing, Hunk shrugs. “What are _you_ doing here? You’re hauling freight?” He shakes himself. “Wow, it’s so good to see you, man.” 

Lance beams. “Same, buddy.”

Ten years since Lance quit the Galaxy Garrison, fed up with the rules and sick of never once being able to best that goddamn Keith. It hadn’t been _fair_ when Keith had gotten first place in their pilot class senior year, but it hadn’t been very mature of Lance to get into a fistfight with him over it. Lance had been demoted down to the lowest rank in his class. Everyone knew the lowest ranked pilots didn’t get picked for activity duty. Ashamed of himself and furious at everyone, Lance had quit. 

He’s never been able to live it down. It’s been ten years since he talked to any of the old crowd. Ten years since he gave up on all of those old dreams.

Seems like even longer than that. Seems like a lifetime ago, or longer. 

“Um,” Hunk says, shadows of that familiar old bumbling manner of his. “Wow. Lance. Uh. Listen. Dispatch sent me out here when someone reported a ship in Alpha Twelve. Are you okay? Where are you headed anyway?” 

Lance feels his cheeks go hot. He can’t exactly admit that he let himself get off course because he’d overeaten to the point of delirium last night. “Hauling some ore out to Enteroxin 5.” He scrubs his hand through his hair. “I really just was feeling under the weather. Put the ship on autopilot until I could get her parked, and I must have missed some nav messages. It’s nothing, really. Just a stupid mistake.” 

Hunk nods and adopts a more official air. “Well, that’s fine, as long as you head out of the sector.” 

Lance nods too. “Right,” he says. “Of course. I was actually just getting her warmed up when you showed up, buddy.” 

Hunk smiles. “And you’re feeling okay now?” 

Lance nods, suddenly at a loss for what to say. He used to have a golden tongue, but so many years alone on the deep starways have left it rusty from disuse. 

“Good,” Hunk says, taking Lance’s silence for agreement. He hesitates a moment, and Lance thinks he’s about to say goodbye, but instead he says, “Listen, I’m off duty after this. There’s a little station not too far from here that has one of the best diners this side of Cignus. Do you want to stop and grab some lunch? If it wouldn’t make you too late?” He smiles, and Lance is taken aback at how charming it is. “It’s been so long. I’d really hate to miss this chance to catch up.” 

Lance swallows. Catch up? What does he have to catch up on with Hunk? There’s not much to say about the last ten years on his side and the thought of sitting there and listening to Hunk recount the happy triumphs of his post-Galaxy Garrison career is enough to make Lance’s stomach ache. 

Or maybe that’s just the hunger. His gut grumbles again, angry and empty and eager to be full.

Damn thing has a mind of its own, sometimes. 

Hunk did always appreciate a good meal. If he says this diner is good, it’s good. 

“Alright,” Lance says. The thought of a good meal and some actual conversation is too tempting. “I’m on a tight schedule, but I need to take a break, too.” 

“Great,” Hunk says, seeming relieved that Lance agreed. “I’ll send you the coordinates.” He smiles again. “This is … wow. It’s really good to see you again, Lance.” 

Lance laughs, a little awkwardly. “Yeah,” he says. “You too, Hunk.” 

Hunk waves and then ends the video transmission. He propels himself back over to his ship. A moment later Lance has the coordinates for Aunt Nova’s Space Kitchen. 

“All right,” he says. “This better be good.” He rubs his belly gently and feels a little squiggly worm of nerves work up his spine. 

He’s excited, he realizes. Excited to see Hunk, of course, but more than he’s willing to admit even to himself, Lance is excited to eat.

*****

Hunk pulls his cruiser into an open spot and shuts down the engine. He closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them.

The butterflies in his stomach have calmed slightly, but they’re still there, fluttering gently. 

He can’t believe he’s about to have lunch with _Lance_. 

It’s been ten years — actually, much longer, really — and somehow Hunk’s stupid teenage crush hasn’t quite abated. 

The thing is, when he was a kid, Lance was everything he wasn’t — and everything he admired: handsome and slim and so confident, with an easy charming air that earned him so many friends and admirers.

He’s not that kid any more — the years show in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the new roundness to his cheeks, the hint of a double chin — but when he’d smiled that rakish smile of his, Hunk’s heart had still done a backflip. 

He glances at his reflection in blank control panel. Same old Hunk, blocky and a little too plain to ever be good looking. 

Some things time doesn’t change.

Oh well. Can’t worry about that now. At the end of the day, Lance was still one of his best friends, and Hunk’s not going to let his stupid crush get in the way of a chance to reconnect. 

He enters the sequence to lock the cruiser and then steps out onto the platform bay. Lance’s freighter is just docking. Hunk fixes his hair nervously and waits for the big clunky ship to settle into bay. It’s an older model, but well maintained. Lance always did take care of his equipment. The engines power down. The hatch pops open. 

Hunk’s jaw drops. 

Lance, sitting in the captain’s seat, waves. The motion makes the soft flab under his arms wobble. His gut, so big it fills his entire lap, jiggles gently. He reaches down and has to _lift it up_ , rearranging the heavy rolls of belly fat. Slowly, leaning heavily on the back of his seat, he shifts his bulk out of the cockpit.

He’s _huge_. 

From the chest up, Lance is chubby, but his bottom half is massive. His belly hangs down to his knees in a heavy, swaying curtain. Somehow, he’s found a shirt big enough to contain that jiggly mass, but his overhang strains flabbily against the fabric. His hips are so wide they brush the sides of the doorway as he stands in the freighter’s hatch. His thighs struggle to push past one another with every step, tree-trunk thick and lumpy. Even his calves and ankles are fat, rolling chubbily over the tops of his shoes.

He might be the biggest human man Hunk has ever seen. 

He swallows. 

Hunk’s always had a terrible, secret _thing_ for fat guys. Pretty ironic, considering how hard he has to work not to be one himself.

Those butterflies in his stomach are doing loop-de-loops. 

Slowly, ponderously, Lance waddles down the ramp toward Hunk. Every step sets his body in motion: belly swaying and legs jiggling and big shelf ass swinging back and forth. It’s not more than twenty feet, but he’s red faced and panting by the time he reaches Hunk. 

Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he gasps, “They’re on full Earth gravity here, huh?” 

Hunk nods. He thinks he can speak, but he’s a little nervous to try. A little afraid of what he might say.

Lance shakes his head, disapproving. “I keep her at half G,” he says, nodding his head toward his ship. “Just makes things easier.” 

Hunk bets it does, hauling all that blubber around. 

“So,” he says, awkward, staring right at Lance’s gut and then looking away. “You hungry?” 

Lance rests a hand on the side of his belly. “Starving.” 

Oh boy. 

***** 

Hunk talks too much as they slowly, slowly make their way to Aunt Nova’s. He needs something to distract him from the elephantine sloshing of Lance’s ass. Every step sets off a cascade of motion: ass wobbling and thighs jiggling and love handles bouncing.

“Yeah,” he says. “Pidge is doing great. The work she’s doing on interdimensional travel is revolutionizing the field. She’s on some kind of a research fellowship right now. Barely leaves her lab..” 

Lance shakes his head. “Always knew she was going to put the rest of us to shame,” he says, breathing hard. “And how’s her brother doing?” 

“Matt’s still part of Galaxy Garrison, last I heard,” Hunk says. “Doing well.” 

"And Shiro?" Lance says. 

"He's the new commander," Hunk says. "I'm surprised you didn't hear about that. It was a pretty big deal at the time. Youngest ever honored with the post." 

Lance chuckles. "Figures Shiro would end up in charge." He pauses, seemingly in reflection, but Hunk suspects it might be so that he can catch his breath. His face is red and he's shockingly winded considering they've barely come a hundred yards. 

"What about Keith?" Lance asks finally.

Hunk frowns. He knew this question would come up eventually, but he forgot how direct -- how obvious -- Lance is. That much hasn't changed. 

"I don't know, honestly," Hunk says. "After we all graduated he kinda just ... took off. Said he was going to go look for his mother. I knew it was just him and his dad growing up, but I never realized his mom was still out there somewhere." 

Lance frowns, which makes his double chin more prominent. "Hmmph," he says. "If he was just going to take off, why the hell did he work so hard to be the top of our class? _I_ would have stayed and served." 

Hunk doesn't point out the obvious: Lance _could_ have stayed and served. He's the one that left. 

With one more irritated shake of his head Lance laboriously sets into motion again. 

By the time they get to Aunt Nova's Lance is breathing hard and sweating. The walk has obviously exhausted him. The waitbot greets them and shows them to a booth. Lance frowns. Hunk glances at that huge overhanging curtain of belly and then at the booth and then back at Lance.

There's no way that gut is going to fit, and as much as he might like to see Lance try to squeeze himself in, he'll spare them both the embarrassment. 

"Uh," he says. "Can we get a table?" 

The waitbot clicks in annoyance but leads them to a table. Lance pulls his chair out far, and then drops down into it so heavily that Hunk thinks, for one wild moment, it might give way. It doesn't, thankfully, though it can barely contain Lance. His thighs spill over the edge of the seat and his love handles far exceed the width of the back.

Hunk takes his own seat, not knowing where to look as Lance scoots himself forward, inch by inch. Most of his belly (and there's so much) is hidden underneath the table, but a roll of pudge rests on top of it. You'd never guess how big his gut and ass and legs are, seeing him just from chest up. He looks fat, sure, but not shockingly obese. 

"Phew," Lance says, wiping his brow. He's breathing hard still. "Takes some time getting used to this full earth gravity.”

"Yeah," Hunk says, fidgeting with his napkin. "Uh. It's a killer." 

Lance pulls up the holomenu. "So," he says. "What's good here?" 

He persuses the menu with obvious interest, and mentions maybe six or seven things that sound ‘really good’. Hunk wonders if he’s ever going to make up his mind, but as it turns out Lance gets around that by ordering everything that catches his eye. 

"Umm," Lance says, when the waitbot rolls over to get their order. "I'll get the Centaurus special, but can I get chocolate chip pancakes with that? And I’ll take a pork roll and egg sandwich. And, let's see. Let me get a side of bacon, and a side of hash browns, and oh, you have onion rings! Let me get an order of those too. And a chocolate malt." 

He beams at the waitbot then, even though the robot is programmed to be immune to such charms. 

Hunk would be embarrassed if he weren't so turned on. He orders his usual of a Magellanic Cloud salad and an iced tea and sinks down in his seat. 

The waitbot clicks and beeps and zips away, as if hoping to escape before Lance can order more.

Lance rests his hands on the shelf of his gut and leans back in his chair. 

Well, at least Hunk knows how he packed on so much weight. Lance must stuff his face like this _all the time_. Hunk can just picture it: late nights in lonely stations, chowing down on cheeseburgers and French fries and milkshakes. Long runs in deep space with nothing to do but watch vids and eat and eat and eat. Lance had a healthy appetite in the old days, but it was nothing like this. Somehow, in the last ten years, Lance has turned into a total pig. 

"So," Lance says. "Tell me what's new with you. How's the old Hunkster doing?" 

Hunk swallows. "Uh. Fine. You know. Fine. I did a few years in the Galaxy Garrison forces, but I've been a Starway Patrol officer for oh, six years now?" 

Lance whistles. "Impressive. And what about your personal life? Is there a Mrs. Hunk I need to know about? Some adorable little Hunk babies?" 

Hunk shakes his head so fast he feels like he might get whiplash. "No," he says. "No. Nothing like that. You know me." He laughs awkwardly. “I’ve been working so much I don’t know when I’d have time to you know. Date.” 

Lance sighs. It's so strange seeing the old familiar gestures tranposed on his older, rounder face. Same sigh that Hunk remembers, but this time it makes his chubby cheeks bulge.

"I know how you feel, man," Lance says. "I feel like it's been years since I've had more than a few nights on one planet." 

"How long have you been driving for?" Hunk asks. 

"Since right after I left the Galaxy Garrison," Lance says. "It's not a dream job or anything, but it pays well, and I still get to _fly_." 

Hunk hears a little of the old passion in his voice, a little of the old longing to soar and escape the mundane terrestrial bonds that hold most people down.

"So no Mrs. Lance either, I take it?" Hunk asks diffidently. 

Lance shakes his head. "Not yet," he says. He glances at the table for a moment. "Haven’t been dating much myself. Uh, I've put on a little weight. Gonna have to hit the gym again before I get back on the dating scene." 

A little weight is an understatement, but Hunk is relieved they've addressed the elephantine gut in the room. 

"You've still got that same old Lance charm, though," he says, smiling. 

Lance preens. "You think?" 

"Yeah," Hunk says, nodding. "I'm sure the right person is just waiting for you out there." 

Lance shakes his head laughing. "You always were a romantic, weren't you?" 

Hunk smiles awkwardly. He can't deny it. 

Lance opens his mouth to say something more, but just then his stomach growls, audible even over the din of the restaurant. He presses a hand into the side of his gut, as if urging it to be quiet. 

"Man," he says. "I'm starving. When's our grub gonna get here?" 

***** 

Lance's stomach gurgles and churns uneasily, but thankfully doesn't rumble quite so loudly again. It's embarrassing, but he can't bring himself to care. The hunger is too distracting. That's how it always is. He can feel it as a hollow gaping pit centered right below his ribs that needs to be filled with more and more and more food.

Hunk glances over his shoulder. The waitbot is coming their way with a tray heaped with food. "Here we are, I think," he says, smiling. 

He's still the same kind, happy soul he always was, Lance thinks, just a lot hotter now. Maturity suits him. Ten years on, he looks _rugged_.

Lance just looks like a fatass, no matter what Hunk might say about charm. Lance isn’t a total idiot.

The waitbot rolls up and starts setting their food down on the table. In front of Hunk it places a salad, generously sized but suspiciously full of greenery. The rest of the food -- and there's so much of it -- is all Lance's. The Centaurus Special is front and center: three fried eggs, a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a pile of generously buttered toast, and four sausage links. It's a ridiculous amount of food, but no, of course that hadn't been enough. The breakfast sandwich is served on a huge, crusty roll. His side of bacon glistening with grease, and the hash browns look perfectly fried. The onion rings are big substantial things, served with a tasty looking spicy mayo sauce. The crowning glory, though, is the chocolate malt. It comes in a tall fluted glass, topped with a very healthy dollop of whipped cream and a jewel red cherry. 

Lance is hungry and cranky, joints screaming in this punishing full Earth gravity. It's been way too long since he's been able to enjoy a real meal, instead of just stuffing his face with fast food and vending machine fodder. He licks his lips. His stomach gurgles in anticipation.

It really is remarkably loud. 

"We're fine, thanks," Hunk says to the waitbot, who rolls way to serve other patrons. 

Lance tries, for a moment, to contain himself, but the urge to fill that hole in his middle as quickly as he can overwhelms him. He reaches for his knife and slathers the pancakes in a thick layer of butter, and then covers the whole stack in syrup. He cuts a thick wedge and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth. They're fluffy and light but somehow rich too, studded through with little nuggets of chocolate so sweet they almost make his teeth ache.

"Wow," he says, mouth full. "These are great. You weren't kidding, Hunk!" 

Hunk smiles. "Right? I always make it a point to stop here when I'm in the quadrant." 

Lance nods, but honestly he's not paying too much attention. He can feel the urge to eat coming over him, distracting him from everyone and everything else. He's already swallowing a second mouthful of pancakes, but they can't hold his attention for long either. The crispy bacon looks so good. He picks up a strip between pudgy forefinger and thumb and dredges it through the syrup. The mix of salty and sweet is so good he can barely stand it. He closes his eyes and savors the taste, but then realizes he doesn't have to savor it. There's plenty more bacon where that came from. 

Okay, so maybe it's been a while since Lance has had to worry about social niceties. Maybe that's why, in his frenzied haste to fill his gut, he doesn't worry too much when he gets syrup all over his shirt. He doesn't worry when crumbs from the hash browns -- fried to crisp perfection -- gather on the shelf-like bulge of his belly. He doesn't worry about much at all. He just keeps eating, and eating, and eating. 

Fried eggs sliced open spill out their golden yolks. Lance downs them in two bites, and then sops up the yolk with his toast. He takes a long sip of chocolate malt. It's so thick he can barely suck it through the straw. Delicious, though. He smacks his lips together and bits into a sausage. Mmm. Is that rosemary he tastes? He stuffs the rest of into his mouth and then crams in another bite of pancakes. The breakfast sandwich is almost too big to bite into, but that doesn’t stop him. He finishes it in four enormous mouthfuls. All the while he can feel that familiar warm heavy sensation start to overcome him. He's on his way to eating his fill, and it feels so good. 

It feels so good that he isn't really paying much attention, just keeps stuffing his face as fast as he can until all too soon he looks down and there's nothing but a spread of empty plates spread out before him, the barren remains of some great feast. 

All that food is gone, vanished into his gut. He presses a hand into his belly. The upper part is sitting solidly on the table now, encroaching on his plate. It's firmer, comfortably full of food. 

But not too full. No. Not really too full at all. 

Across the table, Hunk is watching with wide eyes. His salad is unfinished.

The thing is, Lance is still hungry. 

No, not hungry. He's not hungry after eating all that, but he's not full yet, either, not really full, not as full as he _could_ be. 

And the food is so good. It’ll be a long time until he can eat like this again.

He glances at the menu, tempted. 

"This place is amazing," he says, testing the water. 

"Yeah," Hunk says, smiling. "It's really good, right? I knew you'd like it." 

"Yeah," Lance says, slowly. "Did I see that they had cinnamon buns on the menu?" 

Hunk swallows. He looks nervous. Maybe he's embarrassed because Lance is making such a big, fat pig of himself. Lance is embarrassed too, but the embarrassment is drowned by his urge to eat, just another tickle of pleasure. He _wants_ to make a pig of himself, is the thing. He wants everyone to whisper and gawk at the huge fat ass packing away enough food for five people.

"Yeah," Hunk says. "I've heard they're really good. You could always get them to go." 

Lance swallows. “You’re not in a rush, are you?” 

Hunk shakes his head. 

Well then. Lance pulls up the menu screen and enters his order: three cinnamon buns, a another serving of bacon, and oh ... what the hell, he orders a grilled cheese too. Made on Texas toast, the menu says. How is Lance supposed to resist that? He tops off his second course with a large coke. He needs something clear his palette.

"Sorry," he says, grinning. "My stomach was really killing me last night and I didn't eat dinner. Feeling a little peckish." 

"Right," Hunk says, sounding a little dazed. He takes another bite of his salad, as if looking for something to distract him. Lance tries to suck down the very last dregs of his malt. He should have ordered another one of those too. Hard to get good ice cream in space. 

Hunk eats his rabbit food with fixed interest and Lance subtly rubs his belly until the waitbot comes out with the rest of his order. It's just a bot and it can't really convey scorn, but if it _could_ Lance thinks he'd be feeling decidedly shamed. He hates how much he loves that feeling. It stacks up his dirty plates to make room for his second course. The grilled cheese is at least two inches thick and the cinnamon buns are huge and covered in dripping white frosting. They look amazing.

His stomach growls. Propriety be damn. He digs in. 

*****

Hunk almost can't believe what he's seeing. Lance is in the middle of demolishing a _second_ enormous breakfast. He's already packed away an unreal amount of food in that gut of his: eggs and pancakes and sausage and onion rings and potatoes. The very thought of eating that much heavy, greasy food makes Hunk feel nauseated, but Lance doesn't seem to have that problem. He's making short work of the first of his cinnamon buns, licking away the icing smeared all over his lips. 

He takes a big bite of the grilled cheese. The cheese is so melty and gooey and oozing that a long string of it stretches from Lance's mouth to the sandwich. He breaks it with his index finger and then slurps up the cheese. He's eating so fast Hunk is almost worried he might choke or something. He's eating so fast his flabby upper arms jiggle. He's breathing hard, and there's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead again.

Lance slows down when he gets to the third cinnamon bun. They're really colossal -- each the size of a softball and absolutely dripping with frosting. He's still got half the grilled cheese and all that bacon too. 

He's not going to make it, Hunk thinks, watching Lance take a long deep breath. His cheeks are as red as if he'd run a marathon, but he hasn't done anything at all except sit on his fat ass and eat. Then again, eating this much is almost like a marathon of sorts. He cuts a wedge from the cinnamon bun and eats it. His eyes close, like it's an almost orgasmic experience. 

"These are amazing," he says, mouth full. He gestures towards the three quarters of bun still left on his plate. "You want some?" 

Hunk shakes his head. "No," he says. "No. I'm good." 

He hopes he doesn't sound too nervous. Part of him does want to try it, but a bigger part just wants to see Lance eat it _all_. Every last bite.

Lance takes a bite of grilled cheese and crumbs fall down only to be caught on his big, bloated belly. He must be getting full, because he chews more slowly, swallows with labored effort. He's a mess -- a sloppy, piggy mess. There’s some icing on his chin, and a bit of egg yolk on his shirt.

It's one of the hottest things Hunk has ever seen.

Lance reaches forward for the plate of bacon, and then pauses, grunting. His fingertips brush the edge of the plate, but he can't reach. His huge gut is in the way. 

He looks up, grinning sheepishly. "Could you, uh .." 

Hunk leans forward and pushes the dish of bacon a little closer. Lance still has to lean forward so far his belly rests on his plate to pick it up. He grunts and finally reaches it, and then dumps the bacon on the dish with his grilled cheese for easy access. He pops a greasy, crispy strip in his mouth. 

"Can't tell you how long it's been since I've had real bacon," he says, shoving in another strip. 

He's down to just half the cinnamon bun and a few bites of grilled cheese when he exhales and leans back in his chair. 

"Phew," he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I think my eyes were a little bigger than my stomach." 

Eyes bigger than _that stomach_? Not likely. 

"Seems a shame to waste it though," Lance says, and he picks up the grilled cheese and shoves the rest of it in his mouth. He chews hard, takes a long sip of soda, and then picks up the sticky bun. He tears a strip of it off and pops it in his mouth, and then seems to think better of the measured approach. He shoves the rest of it in and chews hard, fat cheeks bulging. He swallows and then pants for a moment and _then_ licks his fingers clean of icing. 

Lance might be the one who just made a total pig of himself, but Hunk feels like he's going to explode. 

Lance drinks down the rest of his soda in one long swallow, and then leans back in his chair. He presses both hands against the round swollen dome of his gut, closes his eyes, and then belches, loud enough that other patrons look up in disgust. 

“That hit the spot,” Lance murmurs, eyes still have closed. He’s sweaty and spent and enormous and Hunk can barely even look at him. He wants to rub the ache from Lance’s stomach. He wants to kiss that swollen flabby belly. He wants to feed Lance, stuffing those fat cheeks full of more food until Lance is really and truly glutted, so full and fat he can’t speak, so full and fat he can’t even move. 

“Uh,” Hunk says. “Yeah.” 

Lance hiccups, and then groans. “Oh man,” he says. “I think overdid it a little bit.” 

“Uh,” Hunk says again, thick mouthed and stupid. “Maybe you’re still sick. From last night. Right?” 

Lance opens one eye slowly, like he can hardly believe Hunk was stupid enough to fall for that lie. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. He burps again, less loudly. “Fuck. Gonna need to sleep this off.” His voice is all thick and syrupy slow. 

“There’s a motel here,” Hunk blurts out. “I could — we could get a room. Um. Maybe. If your stomach is hurting you I could give you a belly rub?” 

Hunk can barely believe what he’s saying. It’s like his mouth has broken free from his brain and is just saying all these things he’s thinking without permission. A belly rub? Seriously? His own cheeks are burning now, and it seems his offer has penetrated even Lance’s gluttonous haze. 

He opens one eye, reptile slow, and smirks. Oh. Hunk knows that smirk. He’s seen it before. Lance looks satisfied and predatory, like he’s suddenly got his sights set on a very different kind of meal. 

“Ugh — that sounds really good, Hunk,” Lance says. He closes his eyes and groans. “That sounds just about perfect.” 

Hunk, feeling hot and cold all at once, flags the waitbot down. He’d been planning to treat Lance anyway, but the other man is obviously in no condition to reach for his wallet. Hunk doesn’t even see _how_ he could reach his wallet over that mountain of belly fat. The waitbot brings the check. Hunk’s hand is shaking and it takes him three times but finally he presses his thumb to the signature screen. He shoves his wallet back in his suit and stands up. 

Across the table, Lance meets his eyes, and he grins sheepishly. “Uh, could I get a little help?” 

Hunk swallows. Lance had barely been able to pry himself from his chair before pigging out. Of course he’s going to need help. Hunk offers him a hand. Lance’s palm is warm and a little sweaty. Hunk leans back, pulling, amazed at how _massively heavy_ Lance feels. Lance squeezes his eyes shut, straining, muscles working hard to shift all that fat. He grunts, and slowly rises to his feet, still clinging to Hunk’s hand. He stumbles forward and for a wild second Hunk thinks he’s going to overbalance and fall belly first but somehow he manages to catch himself on Hunk and on the back of his chair. He gets his balance and stands panting for a moment. 

“Damn earth gravity,” he says, panting so hard he’s barely audible. 

Right. Earth gravity. Like that’s the reason Lance could stand up from his chair, and not the enormous belly hanging almost to his knees. 

Slowly, ponderously, Lance waddles out of the restaurant. He leans back to balance, belly proudly bulging forward, preceding him by a good foot. His wide ass bumps into tables and chairs, and Hunk murmurs apologies to the other patrons. Finally, after what seems like far too long, they’re back out on the main deck of the station. 

“How far to this hotel?” Lance asks, breathing hard.

“Not far,” Hunk says.

“Good,” Lance says. “Feel like I’m going to pop.” 

Hunk laughs, a hysterical, high pitched noise. Funnily enough, he feels exactly the same way. 

*****

This motel is nothing fancy. Hunk opens the door onto a small dark room with shabby dated furniture. Typical spacestation dive. Still, Lance thinks as he waddles over the threshold, he can’t remember the last time he felt so happy to see a bed. He drops heavily onto it, spreading his legs wide to let his belly fall between his knees. His knees and his ankles are screaming, and his stomach is still a tight dense ball of pain. He’s sweating and winded and fuck. 

Fuck. Lance knows he’s let himself go, but somehow it hasn’t hit him until just now how bad things have gotten.

He could barely waddle the few hundred yards from the diner to the motel. Embarrassed and turned on by his helplessness, he’d had to ask Hunk if they could stop and rest. Twice.

Hell, he’d needed Hunk’s help to get up. He _hadn’t been able to stand up_ on his own. 

A ribbon of pleasure runs up his spine. He knows a lot of it is how much food he packed away, but still. He’s let himself go, turned into a fat, out of shape pig, and he’s so turned on by it. 

And by the looks of it, he’s not the only one. 

Lance knows Hunk, despite the years that have passed since he last saw him, and he knows what Hunk’s red cheeks and shifty gaze mean. The big guy likes this, somehow. Likes it just as much as Lance does. 

Damn. Who would have thought Hunk would have a thing for fatties? 

Lance grunts, leaning forward as if to reach down and unlace his boots. It’s farcical. Even when he’s not absolutely stuffed, it’s a struggle from him to reach his feet. Right now, it feels like there’s a small mountain in the way. 

“Uh, Hunk,” he asks, “Could you help a guy out and …” 

He gestures at his feet, barely visible beyond the bulge of his gut. 

Hunk’s eyes go wide. “What? Oh. Yeah! Sure thing, pal.” 

Hunk gets down on his knees, kneeling right in front of Lance’s gut, and damn if that doesn’t make his dick stir. Carefully, Hunk reaches down and unties Lance’s shoes, first one and then the other. Freed from his shoes, Lance’s pudgy feet are red and swollen. He wiggles his toes. Even those are fat. 

Damn. 

“Thanks,” he says, when Hunk stands back up. He’s all nervous, skittish as a rabbit, and Lance finds it ridiculously endearing. 

Lance shuffles his big fat ass further back onto the bed. It’s a lot of work, moving all this blubber, and he’s feeling a little breathless again by the time he’s finally leaning back against the headboard. Chest heaving, he pulls his shirt so that it comes untucked and his belly can finally hang free. He’s such sack of lard that his gut rests on the bed between his spread legs, pale and quivering. He feels disgusting and turned on and full and enormous, almost pinned by the implausible spread of his bulk. 

“Think I was promised a belly rub,” he says, smiling. His heart is beating fast and it’s not just from the effort of getting himself up on the bed. He’s _nervous_ , almost as nervous as Hunk looks. It’s been so long since he’s done this, and he’s ever done it with anyone he cares about as much as he care about Hunk. He’s also never done it while looking like a beached whale. He sure hopes Hunk is right and he’s got a little of that old magic left. He needs all the help he can get. 

*****

Lance’s belly is a marvel. Soft and pale and _so big_ it seems almost unreal. It fills all the space between his spread legs. Hunk sits down gently on the bed, but even that slight motion sets that ocean of flab wobbling. 

“Right,” he says. “Belly rub.” He puts one hand flat on Lance’s belly. His skin is so soft, soft as silk and nearly hairless. He’s pale, too, except for the weave of stretch marks that crisscross his gut. Hunk knows about that. He’s got his own set, on his belly and hips and even on his calves. His are old though, decades old now, from that first growth spurt when he came into his height and weight all at once. They’re faded now and pale. Some of Lance’s are like that — just pale faded stripes a shade paler than his skin — but on his love handles and sides and below his belly button there are new stretch marks. They’re scarlet red and very big. Lance got big, Hunk thinks, and just kept growing, and his skin had to stretch and stretch and stretch to contain all his flab. 

“Are you going to give me a belly rub or are you just gonna tease me?” Lance asks, annoyed, giving Hunk a look that is so familiar and so _Lance_ it makes something warm twist in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

Hunk shifts so he’s kneeling to Lance’s side, and presses both hands into the soft spongy fat of Lance’s gut. It’s amazing how soft and pliable it is. Even when he’d been bigger, Hunk had always been built along stockier lines. Lance is pure flab, not a hint of muscle in sight, and as Hunk digs his fingers in, kneading that soft flesh, everything wobbles and jiggles and moves. 

“Feel good?” He asks. 

“Mmmm,” Lance says. His eyes are closed now, and his head is tipped back. “Yeah. Really good.” 

Hunk is hard now, aching in his pants, but he doesn’t want to rush things. He’s dreamed of something like this for — oh, longer than he can even say. It’s always been there in the back of his mind, even when he was a kid, even when he dated men and women who fit and chiseled and slim. It’s not like he didn’t find them attractive. He had. It’s just that there’s always been this, too, even more than anything else, the dark secret thing he thought about late at night when he jerked himself off in his lonely bed. 

And now it’s real. 

He could explore Lance’s belly for hours. His belly button is a huge, dark cavern, and Hunk idly wonders exactly how much he could fit in there. He’s so fat that the very bottom of his belly has started to crease, folding down into two distinct lobes. His skin is thin and stretched and a little dry, and Hunk thinks with a weird pang that he wishes he’d been around to rub lotion on it for Lance, to keep him soft and supple and well cared for. 

“I know I’ve porked up,” Lance grumbles needing, “but my stomach is up here.” 

He reaches for Hunk’s hand and puts it on the upper roll of his belly, which is still covered by his dirty, stained tee shirt. 

“Right,” Hunk says, blushing. “Sit up for a second.”

Lance sits up with considerable effort and Hunk tugs off his tee shirt. His fat upper arms and chest and impressive upper belly roll sag free. He’s bottom-heavy, for sure, but he’s also _really fat_ and Hunk marvels at his flabby man tits. They sag, pink nipples pointed straight down, stretch marks prominent. His tits merge right into a big roll of dimply underarm flab that prevents Lance from resting his arms against his side. Well, that and his arms themselves, which are huge and flabby, as big around each as one of Hunk’s thighs. They’re so fat that chubby roll of flab has started to engulf his elbows. 

He’s _enormous_. Massively, morbidly obese.

Hunk has to settle himself for a moment before he does something embarrassing like come in his pants. 

He breathes in and then out and then works his fingers into the upper belly roll. He can feel Lance’s stomach packed hard beneath those inches of fat. 

“Ahhh,” Lance says. “That feels good.” His eyes flutter shut again, and he opens his mouth and burps again. 

He doesn’t apologize. Hunk doesn’t care. Something about how big and sloppy and lazy Lance has gotten makes him feel wild. He’s lived his own life according to strict laws of order and moderation. Lance is like a living, breathing monument to everything Hunk has denied himself.

It’s so hot.

“You look …” Hunk can’t bring himself to say it. 

“What?” Lance chuckles. “I look what, big guy?” 

“Really hot.” 

Lance snorts. “I look _fat_ ,” he says. “I look _huge_. You can say it.” 

“Yeah,” Hunk breaths. “You’re enormous.” 

Lance slaps his own gut. “I know,” he says, slowly. “Don’t know how it happened.” 

Hunk, feeling bold, mumbles, “You stuffed your face. All the time, I bet. Just like you did earlier.” 

Lance laughs. “Can’t get anything past you,” he says. “Forgot you were almost as smart as old Pidge.” His voice is darker when he speaks again. “Yeah. I stuffed my face. I ate and I ate and I ate until I was full and aching every day. I pigged out and I porked up.” 

Hunk swallows. “You used to be so thin,” he says. “You don’t … You have no idea, Lance. I was so jealous of you. You had the perfect body and the perfect face and everyone _loved_ you. I always felt like a big fat blob next to you.” He sinks his fingers deep into Lance’s flab, kneading. “Imagine if they could see you now. Imagine what Shiro would say. Imagine what _Keith_ would say.” 

Lance hisses. That hit a nerve, apparently. “He wouldn’t play games like you were, back at the diner,” Lance grunts. “You’re such a nice guy, Hunk. Keith wouldn’t have cared about my feelings. He wouldn’t have hesitated to point out what a huge tub of lard I’ve become.” 

“Yeah,” Hunk says. He’s breathing hard too and fighting the urge to reach down and palm his cock, just to ease a little of the terrible sweet sting of pleasure. “I mean, it’s kind of impossible to miss. This gut is so big. And you’re not just fat. You’ve gotten lazy, Lance. You could barely waddle a hundred yards without getting out of breath.” 

“I know,” Lance says. “Fuck.” He bucks his hips pitifully. It sets that big sheet of belly fat wobbling. “I let myself go. Gave up, and let myself get fat and lazy and out of shape. Remember when I won the pull up contest our senior year?” 

Hunk sucks in a breath. He does remember: Lance, arrow lean and fit, muscles bunching in his shoulders, pulling himself up and down with mechanical ease. “You couldn’t do a single pull up now,” he says, as though that’s not entirely obvious. “You could barely even get up from that chair.” 

“It’s getting hard,” Lance says. “This gut just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and it’s harder and harder for me to get around. Can barely fit in my ship these days. I’m not sure what I’m gonna do when I get too big for her.” 

That day is not far in the future, from what Hunk had seen. An image flashes to his mind: Lance, inhumanly large, wedged in the cockpit of his sad old ship, an immobile mass of flesh. 

“Shit,” he says. “I want to …” 

The outline of his dick is clear through the stretchy blue fabric of his uniform. Lance can’t help but notice it, from the way his dark eyes flash. 

“Help me roll over,” Lance says quickly. “On my side.” 

It takes effort, but slowly and with Hunk’s help Lance shifts his remarkable bulk so that he’s lying on his side, big belly spread out before him. Somehow, it looks even more massive like this, a fleshy mound resting on the bed beside Lance, as soft and wobbly as pudding.

Lance props himself up on one elbow. His other hand rests on his belly. “Help me get my pants off,” he says. 

Hunk pulls the waistband of Lance’s sweatpants down over his huge ass. It’s so big, dimpled with cellulite. Lance shuffles and grunts as he helps wiggle them off. Finally Hunk gets Lance’s pants and underwear off. The sheer amount of cloth is overwhelming. It looks like a tent. Where do you even get clothes this big? 

Lance lays on his side, chest heaving, big belly wobbling. His thighs are huge and fluffy, and his fat chest bulges up towards his chubby face. He’s pale all over except for the red flush in his cheeks, on his chest. 

“Fuck,” Hunk says. 

“That’s the idea,” Lance quips, grinning. 

“Are you even …” 

“What?” Lance looks up, frowning. 

“Are you even hard right now? How can you even tell?” 

Lance’s cheeks go darker red. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him,” he mutters. “But Little Lancey is still down there.” 

Hunk feels like he’s going to overheat. He strips off his jacket, and pulls off his suit. He feels embarrassed, somehow, irrationally, at his thick, clunky body, at the dark curling hair on his chest and groin and thighs. He’s in good shape. He has to be for his job. Somehow, though, he’s never stopped being the shy fat kid he was at fourteen. 

“Damn,” Lance says, a note of awe in his voice that makes Hunk want to puff up his chest. “What do they feed you in the Star Patrol?” 

Hunk chuckles. “Always thinking about food, aren’t you?” he mutters, crawling forward onto the bed. His dick is hard and red, jutting out from his groin. He finally gets a hand around it, jerking himself slowly. It feels so good, but it also feels too intense. He feels jumpy and tense, like he used to feel like a kid. 

“Help a guy out here,” Lance whines. He’s reaching down, pulling all that belly out of the way, but his thick flabby inner thighs and a big fat roll of pelvic fat hide everything anyway. 

Hunk scoots forward so he’s kneeling at Lance’s side. He pushes Lance’s belly up so that Lance can get a better arm around it. He pushes some of Lance’s thigh fat out of the way, and pushes that thick cushion of pelvic fat up and then … 

“Finally,” Hunk says, as the scarlet, swollen head of Lance’s dick pops out. 

“Told you he was down there,” Lance huffs. “Fuck.” He shudders, gasping, as Hunk gets a hand around his dick. He can’t get much of a grip, not with that thick roll of flab in the way, but it seems to be enough for Lance. His cheeks are red and his eyes are closed and his mouth is hanging open. 

“Been a long fucking time,” Lance gasps. 

“Such a fat pig you can’t even jerk yourself off anymore,” Hunk whispers. “You can’t even see your dick anymore, can you?” 

Lance chuckles, breathless. “I can’t even see my toes,” he says, sounding almost proud.

Hunk breathes in through his teeth, sharp. “Damn, Lance,” he says. He shifts up, one hand still gently jerking Lance. It’s not easy with so much belly in the way.

“Watch it,” Lance mutters, when Hunk jostles his belly unnecessarily roughly. “If I barf it’s definitely going to ruin the mood.” 

Hunk jostles his belly again, a little more gently. He circles Lance's cavernous belly button with one finger. The skin is all stretched and loose, folded into little flabby wrinkles, deformed by how much weight Lance has packed on in such a short amount of time. 

"I used to be so jealous," Hunk murmurs, pinching a little fold of loose skin. 

"Huh?" Lance, eyes dark and blow, looks up. 

"I used to be so jealous of you," Hunk says. "You were handsome and popular and _thin_. Everything I wasn't. Now look at you." 

"Fuck," Lance says. 

Hunk lets go of his dick. His thick pubic fat engulfs it again. His hips buck pitifully, but there's no purchase to be had.

Hunk slides a finger into Lance's belly button. It's deep enough that even his second knuckle disappears. Warm, musty heat. Soft yielding flesh. It feels so good. It would feel even better if it were his prick, though. 

"How does that feel?" Hunk asks.

"Good," Lance says, choked. "Really good." His hips are still working, fucking into his fat pad. "'m so full still. Hurts, but it feels so good." 

Hunk adds another finger. He's not a small man. His fingers are thick and long, but Lance's belly button is so huge they fit with no problem. He fucks them into Lance's gut slowly but firmly. Everything moves. Avalanches of flab. Hunk's got his other hand around his own dick. He feels tense, close, balls drawn up tight against his body. Lance moans, and then brings his hand to his mouth to stifle a belch. 

"Ate too much, huh?" 

Lance groans again. "No shit," he says. "You saw me, didn't you?" 

"I saw you," Hunk agrees. "Packed away more in one meal than I'll eat all day. More than I’d eat in two days." He pinches some of Lance's lard between thumb and forefinger. “Working on making this gut even bigger, huh?" 

"Can't help it," Lance says, pitifully. "Can't help myself. It was so good. Feels so good to be full." 

Hunk drags his palm along the side of Lance's belly. It's amazing, really, how far it juts out. "You'd eat more now, wouldn't you? If we had anything?" 

Lance nods, mouth hanging open, lips wet. His fine features are all sunken beneath pillowy cheek fat and billowing double chins. Even his eyes look fat, if that makes any sense. "Can't resist a good meal," Lance gasps. "Wouldn't mind some pie now." 

Hunk can't believe he's still thinking about food. "Such a hog," he murmurs. 

"Yeah," Lance says. "Well, you don't seem to mind much, do you?" 

Red cheeked, Hunk shakes his head. "No," he says. "I don't mind. You look so good. So soft, Lance. It's so ..." 

Hunk has three fingers pressed into his belly button now. Lance's flabby gut moves in a swaying, rhythmic motion, in time with Hunk's thrusts. He's breathing hard and very red in the face, and one of his hands is reaching down towards his own hard dick, buried under rolls and rolls of thigh fat, public fat, belly fat. 

"Come on," Lance says. "Give me your dick, Hunk. Stop playing around." 

"Yeah," Hunk says, swallowing. "Okay. 

He repositions himself so he's got a better angle. He runs the wet head of his dick along Lance's belly. His precum shines wetly. Then, slowly, one hand wrapped around his dick, he guides it into Lance's cavernous belly button. 

It's better than anything he could have imagined. He's never felt anything like this: soft and dark and warm. Engulfing. He can feel Lance's belly sway against his lean thighs. So much motion. So much quivering flesh. He can't even imagine how it must feel for Lance, to be buried in so much softness. 

"You feel ..." Hunk gasps. "You feel so fucking good. So fat." 

Lance's hands are on his belly now, kneading and molding the soft flab. 

"Harder," he mutters. "Come on, Hunk." 

"Yeah," Hunk says, hips working. He can feel the effort in his thighs. He feels all hot and tight and nervous, like a teenager still. Like all the years and all the pounds that separate that Lance of his teenage dreams from this one, writhing beneath him, mean nothing. 

"Wanted this for so long," he says, panting. 

"Wanted a big fat gut to fuck?" Lance asks, grinning, one eye open. He looks nothing all like he used to and yet that expression is exactly the same. 

"No," Hunk says. "Wanted you." 

Lance's expression softens. "Fuck," he says. "Wish you'd said something a little sooner, dude." 

Hunk shrugs. "I was nervous. I -- ah. I ... you were so hot, Lance. So funny. So brave." 

"Don't have to worry about the first one anymore," Lance says darkly. The flush has spread to his chest. 

Hunk can't think of what to say. Doesn't know how to convey in words how hot this is. How hot Lance is, still. All he can do is close his eyes and jerk harder into that engulfing softness. He is close. So close. 

"I was so embarrassed," Lance says, "when I realized it was you. Didn't want you to see that I'd turned into a big, fat blob. That I totally let myself go." 

Hunk thinks of all the years of total gluttony that Lance has passed to end up like this. Day after day after day of stuffing himself with the very worst food. His body transformed from lean, sculpted perfection to this morbidly obese pile of flesh. Eating and eating and eating with no regard for anything at all in the entire world except what he'll next stuff his face with. 

Hunk jerks himself harder, hand twisting tight. He breathes in, and shudders, and spills himself into Lance's huge belly button. Cum spills out, drips down the flabby mound of his gut. Hunk’s chest heaves as he rides that waning wave of pleasure. Lance is breathing hard, fucking furiously into his own fat. Hunk could leave him like that, used and pitiful and unable even to get himself off, but that doesn't seem very fair. 

He reaches a hand down and roots around in all those flabby rolls of flesh for Lance's hard little dick. He gets two fingers wrapped around it and jerks slowly. Lance gasps, breathing hard. One of his hands cups his fat moob, saggy and round and topped with a pretty pink nipple. Lance brings his other hand down to his navel and drags his fingers through Hunk's cum. He smears the mess back and forth and then brings his fingers to his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he sucks his fingers clean of Hunk's seed, like he's so desperate to be filled up he'll take anything he can get. 

"Next time," Hunk promises darkly. "Next time I'll fuck your fat face instead of your gut." 

Red-cheeked, sweaty, and spent, Lance meets Hunk's gaze and _smiles_. "I'm gonna --" He has to pause for a breath, that's how fat and out of shape and winded he is. "--gonna hold you to that."

Then, with a grunt, he comes, spilling himself all over Hunk's hand. 

Lance lies there gasping, belly moving in time with his heaving chest. He looks massive and replete, full and well fucked, and suddenly -- suddenly! -- it hits Hunk that he has no idea what he's doing. He sits back on his heels, feeling too exposed, ashamed of his big softening dick, ashamed of his body, ashamed of how much he liked what they just did.

"Uhhhh," he says. "That was really ... I mean. Uh." 

Lance opens one eye. "You're going to get weird on me _now_ , Hunk?" 

Hunk, red-faced, shrugs and smiles. As soon as he's out of the heat of the moment and trapped back in his head he starts overthinking things. Starts thinking about how much he likes Lance, and how shocking hot it had been. What it might mean. What Lance might think if he knew how much Hunk wanted to do all of this -- and so much more -- again. 

Lance shakes his head. "You're thinking way too much right now, buddy." He grabs a roll of belly fat and wobbles it. "You just did the dirty with all of this, and you're worried I'm gonna kick you to the curb?" He snorts. "There's not exactly a line of suitors out the door for a fat old fuckup who can barely fit his ass into his pilot's seat, Hunk." 

"Don't say that about yourself," Hunk says. "You're a great pilot. You're --" 

"I'm not looking for consolation," Lance says quickly. With a great lurching motion, he heaves his huge gut up so he's on his back. Then he scoots up the bed so he's sitting semi-upright, belly pooling between his spread legs like some huge blanket of soft, warm flesh. "I'm trying to say you don't have much competition." He frowns, and Hunk sees a shadow of the stubborn, proud kid he used to love so desperately. "And even if there were, I'd pick you anyway." 

"Oh," Hunk says. He can feel his cheeks getting warmer. "I didn't ...I never thought." 

"Yeah," Lance says, "Well, join the club." He exhales. "Listen, I know you want to talk about it, but can't that wait until the morning?" 

Lance's eyes are bright and earnest and Hunk thinks okay. Fine. He's waited this long. He can wait a few more hours. "Okay," he says. "The morning." 

Lance nods, satisfied. His chin sinks into a roll of neck fat. "Good," he says. "Now how about you help me up and into the shower?" 

***** 

Lance can hardly believe it's him. He knew, of course. He knew he'd gotten big. He'd felt it in the way all his clothes fit (and then didn't fit, as his belly and his hips and his ass kept growing and growing). He'd felt it in the way the pilot's chair in his ship felt more and more constricting. He'd felt it in the way his joints ached and his breath went short at even the slightest exertion. But not until he's standing (with Hunk's aid) in the bathroom of the shitty little motel does he realize exactly how huge he's let himself get. 

The man reflected in the mirror is swaddled in rolls of billowing, moving flesh. Belly and hips and huge dimpled ass. He's twice as wide as Hunk, who is not as small man. Wider. He's got stretch marks on his belly and on his upper arms and even on his shoulders. 

Who gets stretch marks on their shoulders? 

"Damn," he says, reaching around to rest a hand on the still-packed-full crest of his belly. "Guess I really have let myself go." 

Hunk swallows, nervously. "I'm sure you could drop the weight no problem. I worked with a nutritionist to come up up with a low-carb --" 

Lance snorts, cutting him off. "Do I look like someone who has any interest in _low-carb_?" He makes it sound like the curse it is. 

Hunk shakes his head. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry. It's like -- reflex. I think. I didn't." 

"You like all of this, don't you?" Lance says, a little more wheedling than he intends. He pats his belly, and he can feel all that flab jiggle and quiver. 

Hunk nods. 

"Good," Lance says. "And I like to eat. Sounds like a match made in heaven." 

Hunk meets his eyes in the mirror and smiles. "I guess it does." 

The shower is a tight fit. Lance feels wedged in like a sardine in a can. His hips press against the plexiglass stall walls. His belly juts so far forward he can't reach to turn on the water without overbalancing himself. Thankfully, Hunk is here to help. He turns the water on and helps Lance soap himself up, reaching down under Lance's ponderous overhang to wash between the thick hanging rolls of his thighs. It feels good -- amazing really -- after so many months of vacuum showers to be really and properly clean. So good that Lance doesn't even mind the ache in his knees and his lower back. It's been a long time since he's spent this long on his feet. 

It's scary how much it exhausts him, and it's exciting too. He doesn't know what to do with that, but he keeps turning it over in his mind, like some shiny and newly discovered gem. 

When he's cleaned and rinsed he squeezes out of the shower -- he's going to have bruises on his hips tomorrow from this -- and Hunk wraps him up in a towel. Or tries to. Those puny things don't come close to fitting around Lance's impressive girth. So instead Lance takes a towel and tries as best he can to dry his hair and arms and upper body while Hunk takes another and dries his belly and ass and legs, careful to get between all his rolls. 

Finally -- finally! -- when Lance is just about spent, breathing hard and not sure he can even shuffle himself back over to the bed -- they're all done. Lance does manage to waddle back over to the bed, just barely. He feels so huge, absolutely elephantine, as he shuffles one fat leg past the other, but he feels good too, somehow, in a way that he hasn't in so long. He sits down carefully (he's not paying for a bed frame, and motel furniture is cheap junk to begin with) and then Hunk helps him swing his legs up onto the bed. He shuffles over laboriously so half his ass isn't hang off the bed, his whole body quivering, and then lays back, spent. 

His chest is heaving and his belly bulges in front of him, blocking his line of sight. He can feel the heavy, massive weight of it on his legs. He feels warm and content and exhausted, swaddled in his own absurd flesh, for once not _wanting_ anything. 

Hunk watches him for a moment, smiling. "You need anything else?" 

Lance shakes his head, too tired to speak. 

"I'm gonna go take a shower, then," Hunk says, and he gives Lance's belly a fond pat. 

Lance smiles and closes his eyes and lets himself sink deeper and deeper into the warm, soft, enveloping cocoon of his own body. He doesn't mean to, but before he knows it, he is asleep. 

He wakes up much later, disoriented. His back aches from the way he's been sleeping, and he feels too hot. He always runs hot, these days. Hunk is curled into his side, one hand tucked under the edge of Lance's belly. The clock on the bedside table reveals it's six in the morning. 

They've been asleep for hours. 

Lance has to piss, and he's pondering how he might be able to get up under his own power when his stomach growls, enormously loud. 

He hadn't noticed at first, but now he realizes that he's painfully hollow-gut hungry. 

Hunk starts and then sits up, blinking gummy eyes. "Wha -- I'm coming. I'm --" He frowns at Lance. "Was that you?" 

Lance pats his belly tentatively. "I think we missed a meal or two." 

Hunk snorts. "What meal?" 

"Oh," Lance says, ticking them off on his chubby fingers. "After dinner nosh. Evening repast. Midnight snack." 

Hunk smiles, lopsided and so, so charming. "I guess we better think about breakfast then. Wouldn't want you wasting away." He squeezes Lance's belly fondly. 

"Does Aunt Nova's deliver?" Lance asks slowly. "I'm craving some pie. I'm thinking you should feed it to me. Y'know. If that sounds like something you'd want to do." 

"Yeah," Hunk says, too eager, all in a rush. "Yeah, it definitely does." 

He leans over to reach for the com tablet on the bedside, giving Lance a prime view of his thick muscular thighs and round ass. That's a view he could get used to. Hunk comes back up with the com tablet, already scrolling through the menu. "Banana cream?" he asks. "Cherry? Or shoo fly?" 

"It's too early for to make me decide something like that," Lance whines. "Better just get one of each." 

Hunk breathes in, sharply. "Yeah," he says, cheeks going all red again. "Yeah. One of each. Good idea." He grins at Lance. 

Lance grins back at him, stupid happy, feeling something warm in his chest even despite the persistent, empty ache of his belly. His gut rumbles, voicing its complaint, and he pats it, urging caution. Just wait, he thinks. You'll be bursting full soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/roebling_writes)!


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